by Gwen Bristow
“—and there I was, just a common card-player from Park Row, saying, ‘I’ve got to meet that girl, what do you have to do to get acquainted?’ And they said to me, they said, ‘You have to have a diamond necklace and your arms full of sables, no less, why man, she’s got Bleecker Street on its knees, what would she be doing with a bum from Park Row? What can you give her that she wants, you—’”
Garnet saw Mr. Bartlett. He was drunk. But he was not too drunk to understand that everybody was laughing at him now. His face turned white, and slowly began turning red again. Garnet closed her hand on Oliver’s elbow. “Oliver! Go out there near her! She’s going to need you!”
Oliver was half amused and half exasperated. Florinda had started this herself and he thought she should have known better. But he said, “All right. Come on, John. You stay here, Garnet.”
She stood up and they pushed past her between the bench and the table, and got free. They began making slow headway through the mob packed around Florinda. Silky was still talking.
“But I was clean knocked over, flat as a pancake I was, and boys, you’d have been there with me if you’d seen her do that dance in the black lace! So I went around to the stage door, heart pounding like a kid’s in the springtime, and boys, they were right in all they’d said. Men six deep on all sides. And out she comes, wrapped up in ten thousand dollars’ worth of furs, and on each elbow a gent, a real gent in a silk hat, and another gent making way for her like they would for a queen. I couldn’t get near. She never even saw me. And there stands a carriage with purple curtains and matched black horses, and in she goes, and as she gets in I catch the sparkle of a bracelet that must have sent one of those gents howling from his bank, but that’s what she cost and I guess she was worth it, and they all—”
The other voices drowned his again. The men were full of awe at Florinda, and vastly amused at Bartlett’s sputtering embarrassment. In his far corner of the room, Texas was blinking and trying to stand up. He was very drunk. Florinda sat quietly on the table, watching Silky as though she were the audience and he the show. She was smiling a little, as though enjoying the performance.
“Of course you never saw anybody like her!” Silky shouted in derision. “Where’d a bunch of yokels like you ever expect to see anything like the star of the Jewel Box? You’ve never been to New York. You nor Bartlett either. Think of her pulling a joke like that on Deacon Bartlett. What she’ll have to tell them when she gets back to St. Louis, about the holiest hell-chaser in town!”
Bartlett had elbowed his way to stand in front of Florinda. He stood there, swaying on his feet. Florinda laughed at him softly. Bartlett was blind with rage. John and Oliver were trying to shove through the mob toward him, but before they could reach him Bartlett made an inarticulate noise in his throat. Having found his voice, he let go a string of sizzling words, and gave Florinda a blow on the side of her head that sent her toppling sideways.
It almost knocked her to the floor. But Mr. Penrose, with a roar of wrath, caught her with one arm and with the other aimed a blow at Bartlett’s head. The blow glanced off the side of his cheek, but by this time John and Oliver had reached him. Oliver grabbed one of Bartlett’s arms and John the other. The rest of the men surged between him and Florinda. They were all yelling at once. Florinda was an American woman, rare and precious in this foreign land, and they would have been glad to tear Bartlett to pieces for striking her. Bartlett staggered between John and Oliver, struggling to get free and swearing in wild anger. Texas was on his feet now, swearing by various gods that he’d kill that brute Bartlett if he dared hit that lady again. Above the pandemonium Silky was exclaiming,
“What did I do? Wasn’t I supposed to tell them? Charline—Florinda—I didn’t mean to start anything!”
Florinda had straightened up. Penrose had his arm around her. She smiled her thanks to him, while she pushed back the hair that Bartlett’s blow had sent falling around her face. Her gloves were blue silk; they glimmered against her bright hair. Her clear warm voice answered,
“It’s all right, Silky. He hasn’t hurt me.”
Garnet stood pressed back against the wall. John and Oliver did not need to protect Florinda now, they had to protect Bartlett. In this gathering, Florinda’s sex and her beauty and her nationality were all the protection she needed, but Bartlett had to have help if he was going to get out alive. John and Oliver were dragging him out of the crowd. Bartlett was kicking. John used his fist to give him a well-aimed crack on the head. Bartlett crumpled up like a doll.
Garnet had never seen a riot before. She was frightened. But she saw Florinda turn her head, looking for her. Their eyes met, and Florinda gave her a cool private smile.
Garnet lowered her head and bit her lips to keep from laughing. All of a sudden, that little smile had told her why Florinda had wanted her to be here tonight. Florinda had meant this to happen, just as it had happened, but nobody knew this except the two of them. And Florinda was an actress. When she did a scene, she needed an audience who could appreciate it.
Without any visible excitement, John said to the man next to him,
“Here, Reynolds, give me a hand. Oliver, we’ll get Bartlett out of here. You’d better take care of Mrs. Hale.”
Garnet had been so quiet the others had forgotten she was there. But hearing her name, two men moved over to stand on either side of her. Oliver handed his side of Bartlett to Reynolds, and began to make his way back to her. John and Reynolds dragged Bartlett toward the door.
Dismay had shocked Silky into something like sobriety. He moved over to Florinda again. Mr. Penrose still had a sheltering arm around her. Silky, almost in tears, was pleading with her to forgive him. Florinda tweaked Silky’s mustache, forgivingly.
Her eyes followed John and Reynolds as they dragged Bartlett to the door. John called over his shoulder,
“He’s out, boys. We’ll take him home and lock him in.”
The door banged shut behind them. There was a sudden uncomfortable silence. Nobody knew how to go on from here. The men’s heads turned back to Florinda questioningly.
Florinda smiled at them, a brilliant smile, warm and friendly. She reached up to feel her cheek, still red from Bartlett’s blow. She shrugged, and her clear voice spoke to them all.
“I wonder,” she said, “who’s going to make a cold pack for his head in the morning.”
All of a sudden, from the corner of the room, they heard applause. It was Texas. Drunk as he was, Texas knew triumph when he saw it.
He clapped his hands. As though it had been a signal, the others joined him. They clapped, they shouted, one or two of them began to cheer. It was as though Florinda had appeared on the stage.
Florinda began to laugh. This was a noise she was used to.
In another minute she had got out of Mr. Penrose’s sheltering arm and was standing on the table. She laughed, and kissed her hands to them, over and over, as she had laughed and kissed her hands to hundreds of other audiences before them. She was simply dressed, in a printed muslin gown she and Garnet had stitched in Señora Silva’s parlor, but her vigor and richness needed no special costume to make it real. Her vitality flashed through the dingy room as it had flashed through the Jewel Box.
She was back where she belonged. She was a great entertainer and she knew it, and in a dozen seconds they knew it too. They shouted and applauded; even the few Mexicans in the room, who had not understood a word of what had been said, grinned and drew nearer.
For a moment she stayed like that, letting them look at her. Then she raised her hands and swept out the racket. Her voice went out to them, not loud, but so perfectly placed that every man in the Fonda could hear what she said.
“Well, boys, this is the first time in three months I’ve had a chance to act natural. And oh, what a pleasure it is!”
Pulling a handkerchief out of her bosom, Florinda waved to them as if she were greeting her friends after a journey.
“Tell me—have any of you besides Silky
Van Dorn ever been to the Jewel Box? Then you don’t know what you’ve been missing and it’s time you found out. Mr. Penrose, have you got that guitar? Give us some music. Take your seats, gents, take your seats. We’re going to put on a SHOW!”
SEVENTEEN
OLIVER INSISTED THAT GARNET go home now. It was some time before she heard what happened after she left.
Florinda gave them a show that lasted till past midnight. By this time most of the traders were drunk, and several were blissfully unconscious. They noisily agreed that it was the greatest evening they had ever spent in Santa Fe. And Bartlett was not only a fool, he was also a brute, and what was more, he was ridiculous.
Silky was having a bad attack of conscience. He had started all this, he said over and over as he stared into his drink. It was his fault that Bartlett had tried to beat her up. That so beautiful and so defenseless lady, and it was all his fault.
When at last Florinda said this was all for tonight, the men were still not satisfied. Florinda answered their protests by saying she was hoarse now, but would sing for them again whenever they wanted her to. She slipped down from the table and started across the room. Silky caught her wrist as she passed him.
“Charline,” he mumbled—“Florinda—which do I call you?”
“Call me Florinda. I’m so used to it now.”
“Are you ever going to forgive me, Florinda?”
“Why of course. It’s perfectly all right. I’ve been having a grand time amusing the gentlemen.”
He sighed guiltily, shaking his head at a splash of liquor on the table. Silky’s eyes were like pieces of glass. His mustache was limp and drooping. He was about to burst into tears.
“But what can you do now?” he exclaimed. “You haven’t got any place to spend the night.”
Florinda smiled, without answering. Her eyes were glassy too. She had not been drinking, but her performance had been hard work and she was tired.
“You can have my room,” Silky offered in a burst of stricken generosity. “I don’t mean what you think. I’ll go bunk with Penrose.”
“Why Silky, that’s mighty nice of you. But I wouldn’t think of putting you to such inconvenience. I’ll be all right.”
Silky smiled with the gratitude of one who has made a worthy gesture and does not have to live up to it. Florinda walked over to where John was sitting quietly by himself. John had returned to the Fonda after delivering Bartlett to his lodgings at the house of Señor Mora. He had been here ever since, drinking very little, and watching her with ironic admiration.
“You are very good,” John said as she paused in front of him.
“Thanks,” said Florinda.
“What are you going to do now?” he asked.
“Don’t worry, John. I wouldn’t let anything like this happen unless I was ready for it.” Florinda reached into the pocket of her dress. She held out her hand, and showed him a key on the palm of her blue silk glove. “I got a room yesterday while Mr. Bartlett was sleeping off some firewater. One of the Missouri gents helped me, since my Spanish is so rocky. I told him Mr. Bartlett and I were tired of living at the Moras’ and wanted to move.”
“I see. But what do you want me to do about it?”
Florinda glanced eloquently around them. The Fonda was hot and airless and full of drunken chatter. From the plaza outside they could hear the voices of other traders as they emerged from the gambling houses.
“I don’t quite like the idea,” said Florinda, “of going out by myself right now. Since you’re the only sober man in sight, I thought maybe you’d go with me. It’s not far.”
“All right,” said John. He stood up.
“Is Mr. Bartlett still unconscious?” she asked.
“I’m sure he is.”
“Then if you don’t mind, I’d like to get my things. I’m all packed, and it’s only six steps to the Moras’.”
John enlisted the aid of a fairly sober Mexican boy. They went down the dark little street that led from the Fonda to Bartlett’s lodgings. Bartlett was still lost in a drunken slumber. Florinda showed them two stout boxes. John shouldered one and the boy the other, while she picked up the carpetbags she had brought from New Orleans. They went back across the plaza, past the gambling houses, to a small residence where Florinda had managed to get a room. John and the boy set down the boxes. Florinda had brought a candle with her, and lit it at a lantern hanging at the door of a saloon as they passed. Now she used it to light the pottery lamp on the table in her room. John turned to the boy, his hand in his pocket, but Florinda stopped him.
“Here, John.” She held out a piece of silver. “Give him this. When people are nice to me, it doesn’t cost them anything.”
With a faint smile, John took her money and paid the boy. As the boy went out, Florinda sat down on the edge of the bed. John stood by the door.
“Is there anything else?” he asked her.
“No. Thanks for coming with me. Oh yes, one thing more. Tell me, are those men as drunk and silly on the trail as they are in Santa Fe?”
“No, they’re very different on the trail. This is a reaction from three months of strain.”
“Is it a terribly hard journey to California?” she asked thoughtfully.
“Yes. Very hard.” John had put his hand on the latch, but he turned around. “Why do you ask? Are you planning to come with us?”
“I was thinking of it.”
“It’s none of my business,” John said gravely, “but you won’t like that trail.”
“Why not? Do you think I’m a city softie?”
“No, I think you have a great deal of courage. But it takes more than courage to get across the Mojave Desert.”
“I guess it is pretty tough. But other people stand it. What makes you think I couldn’t?”
“The heat,” said John. “You’re too pale for it.”
Florinda glanced at herself in the mirror on the wall. The lamplight danced over her fair cheeks and her hair. She smiled.
“Ever been in New York in summer?” she asked.
“Yes, and New York is frigid compared to that desert. I wouldn’t want to be responsible for getting you across it.”
Florinda turned her eyes from the mirror and looked directly at him. “I’ll be responsible, Johnny.”
“All right,” he answered quietly.
Florinda yawned. “Well, I can’t think about it now. I’m so tired I hurt all over. That’s the first time I ever held the stage all evening without a break. Good night, John.”
“Good night, Mrs. Grove.”
“Look, Johnny, you can stop that courteous flubdub now. ‘Mrs.’ is a handle that doesn’t fit me very well.”
Again he smiled faintly. “As you prefer. Good night, Florinda.” He went out. Florinda bolted the door after him. She got out a nightgown and began to undress. As she took off her clothes she sang a snatch of song.
My grandma used to say, boys,
That I must be modest and nice,
But where would I be today, boys,
If I’d taken my grandma’s advice?
For several days, Garnet hardly saw Florinda. She caught sight of her on the street, with Penrose and Silky and other California traders, but Florinda only waved and did not pause. Garnet did not see Mr. Bartlett at all. The men who came to call on Oliver said Bartlett hardly put his nose out of doors. They prophesied that this was his last journey to Santa Fe; after this he would prefer to stay in St. Louis where everybody looked up to him.
They laughed at Bartlett and laughed at him. Because, they said, Florinda couldn’t have fooled them, not a bit of it. In fact, every man who spoke of Florinda dropped a hint that he had suspected the truth all along. He hadn’t wanted to say anything, of course, but the first time he saw her he had guessed that she wasn’t an artless young lady who had been lured into an escapade. Why, anybody could have seen that, except a chump like Bartlett.
Hearing them, Garnet went off into the bedroom and smothered her face in a tow
el and laughed till she nearly choked. Until now, she had never realized that when men had lived a long time without women enough to go around, they could be just as catty as girls in the manless confines of a boarding school.
John came to see Oliver often, but John did not talk about Florinda. John seldom talked about anything but business.
Ten days after Florinda’s show at the Fonda, Oliver came in one afternoon to get the list of supplies he had stocked for the trail. “I hear Florinda’s going to California,” he said to Garnet.
Garnet was not surprised, but she asked, “How is she getting there?”
“They say she’s going with Penrose.”
“Penrose? But why on earth did she choose him?”
“I don’t know. I don’t even know why she wants to go at all.” Oliver picked up a ledger and started out. “Maybe she’ll tell you. I’ll be back for supper.”
Oliver went to the store again, and Garnet sat down by the table. She had to finish the letter she was writing to her parents. Mr. Reynolds was going to take it back for her, and drop it into a post office when he got to Missouri.
But it was hard to concentrate on the letter. Garnet cut a fresh quill, and looked down at the paper. Her parents were the most lovable people on earth, but there was so much she couldn’t write to them. She had described the scenery, and the buffalo hunts, and the quaint adobe houses of Santa Fe; but she was sure they wouldn’t understand about Florinda, or about the sort of men she was meeting here. She had begun to have a troublesome feeling that it was going to be harder than ever for her to behave like a perfect lady when she got home next year.
She was glad to hear a knock at the door, and sprang up in welcome when she saw Florinda come in. Florinda said she would like to have the silver buttons Mr. Bartlett had given her.
Garnet was not interested in silver buttons. She demanded,
“Florinda, is it true you’re going to California?”
“Why yes, dearie, I am.” Florinda sat down on the wall-bench. “Are you glad?”
“Of course I’m glad! Tell me about it. Did Mr. Penrose ask you to go with him?”
